The Crisscross Crime (7 page)

Con's expression changed. “He was driving Ron Quick's truck, you said? A white pickup?”

Frank nodded.

Con looked worried. “Ron Quick's wife called a little while ago. She said her husband's been missing for two days.”

Frank's eyebrows shot up. “Two days? She didn't call until now?”

“She said he sometimes works so hard that he sleeps on a cot at the scrapyard,” Con said. “When he didn't call, she went over there. She says there's a new lock on the gate. She couldn't get in.”

“He's either working with Meredith or in big trouble,” Joe said.

Con got up. “We'll find out soon,” he said. “We sent a cruiser over to see what's going on.” He left to go punch the plate number into the computer.

Another officer came in while the Hardys waited. She plopped a stack of books, each as thick as a dictionary, down on the table. “Con
says you got a look at one of the guys who tried to break into First City,” she said to Joe. “Flip through these mug books. See what you can see.”

Joe's shoulders sagged. “Sure,” he said. When the officer left, he shoved half the books over to Frank. “Look for a dude with a buzz cut,” he said, remembering the man he'd seen get out of the black sedan and peek into the First City bank window. “Dark hair, square chin, thick neck, like a wrestler.”

For the next fifteen minutes, the Hardys flipped through pages and pages of mug shots. Every minute or so, Frank would turn his book toward Joe and ask, “Is this the guy?”

Joe would shake his head. “No, look for bigger eyes,” he'd instruct. Or, “Watch for a nose that looks like it's been busted a couple of times.”

Finally Con came back in, holding a computer printout. “Any luck?” he asked.

“No,” Joe said, closing a book. “Plenty of ugly mugs in here, though. What'd you get?”

“Got a hit on that plate,” Con said. “The car's registered to Speedy Rent-a-Car. I called and they said they rented that car yesterday morning to a guy named . . .” Con glanced at the printout. “A guy named Earl Galatin.”

“Cool,” Joe said. “You get an address?”

Con smiled apologetically. “We're already checking it out,” he said. “Chief Collig says,
‘Thanks for the information, but stay clear of the investigation from now on.' ”

“Figures,” Joe said. He pushed his chair back from the table. “Let's get out of here, Frank. Chief Collig wants us to go home and bake cookies or something.”

The door to the interrogation room opened and the officer stuck her head back in. “No news, Con,” she said. “Unit fifteen just got back from Ron's Salvage. They didn't find anything—no evidence of foul play.”

Con nodded. “Thanks.”

“Wait,” Frank said. He'd suddenly remembered what Sylvia van Loveren had said about people photocopying currency. “Did they say anything about the copy machine in the office?”

The officer got a funny look on her face. “Yeah, they did. Mrs. Quick said her husband was having money troubles, but almost the only thing in his office was a brand-new copy machine that must've cost like around fifty grand. How'd you know?”

Frank shrugged. He didn't want to say too much until he had things figured out. “We saw it yesterday. Seemed a little strange to us, too.”

The officer left and Joe started to get up to go. As Frank stood, he flipped through one more page of the mug book.

“Hold on,” he said, pushing the book over to Joe. “How about him?”

Joe leaned forward, studying the photo. “That's him,” he said. “That's the guy I saw.”

Con looked at the photograph in silence.

“Who is he?” Frank asked.

Con let out a deep breath. “You might be right about Bart Meredith after all,” he said. “That's Eddie Racine. He was Meredith's cellmate in prison. Got out a few weeks ago.”

The Hardys looked at each other. “I knew it,” Joe said. “No way Meredith had an alibi for the robbery.”

Frank pointed a finger at Joe. “So, Eddie Racine was in the car, and Meredith robbed Bayport Savings . . . but who was the driver of the black car? It must be this Earl Galatin guy, right?”

“Don't forget Sylvia van Loveren,” Joe said. “It had to be her giving them inside information.” He looked up at Con. “I'd say we're about to close another case.”

Frank wasn't so sure. He had six fake bills in his pocket from Meredith, and there was the copy machine. Why would bank robbers be involved in counterfeiting?

Con suddenly turned back toward the door. Frank and Joe heard the same thing he did—lots of commotion outside.

An officer burst into the room. “Con!” he shouted. “Come on! The alarm's going off at Empire Federal!”

Con sprinted out. “Which branch?” he called.

The Hardys heard the other officer's answer. “Out on Ridge Road.” Then the voices were lost under the clamor of slamming car doors and gunning engines.

No discussion was needed. “I'll drive,” Frank said as the brothers rushed to the van to join in the chase.

Frank bounced the van over the curb and into the street in hot pursuit of three or four police cruisers.

“They're taking Smith Street north,” Joe said. “That must be the quickest way to Ridge.”

Passenger cars up ahead pulled over to let the police cruisers fly past. The Hardys followed before the opening in traffic closed.

“I could use blocking like this in football games,” Joe joked.

“You'd get a lot more yards if you didn't trip over your own shoelaces,” Frank teased. He cut the wheel hard to the left, keeping a safe distance as the screaming cruisers up ahead pitched single file onto Ridge and roared up the street.

Frank's tone got serious. “Answer the phone,” he said.

“What?”

“The phone, it's ringing.”

“Oops, didn't hear it.” Joe flipped open the cell phone. “Yes?” he said loudly, his finger in his free ear to block out the sirens.

“Joe, it's Biff. You got to get over here, man.”

“We're kind of in the middle of something,” Joe shouted.

Biff's voice sounded urgent. “I'm downtown,” he said. “At the sub shop. There's a freaky-looking guy across the street, and I'm positive he's casing out Empire Federal.”

“Are you sure?”

“Joe, I'm not imagining things. You've got to get over here. I called the cops, but they blew me off.”

“Hang tight,” Joe said, flipping the phone closed.

“Turn around,” he said to Frank.

“What're you talking about? We're almost there.”

“I think the police are headed to the wrong branch of Empire Federal,” Joe said. “Biff spotted somebody casing the downtown branch.”

Frank had to make a decision. If they quit following the police now, they would miss out on what was happening at the Ridge Street branch. “Biff says he saw something suspicious? That's all we're going on?”

Joe nodded.

Frank clenched his jaw and hit the brakes. As the van skidded to a stop, he wrenched the wheel around and gunned the engine. Seconds later they were headed back in the direction they had come from—toward downtown Bayport.

“I hope Biff's right,” Frank said.

Downtown, everything seemed strangely quiet compared to the wailing of the police sirens. Frank pulled the van to the curb about half a block from the sub shop.

The Hardys got out, acting casual, then walked over to meet Biff. Without being too obvious, they glanced over at the stately, four-story stone building that housed the downtown branch of Empire Federal Bank. Few other people were out on the sidewalks in the midafternoon heat, and the Hardys didn't see anyone outside the bank.

They found Biff sitting at a window booth in the sub shop. From there he had a clear view of the front entrance to the bank.

“Okay,” Frank said, settling into the booth. “What's up?”

Biff leaned forward, his huge shoulders hunched up by his ears. “He was over there, I swear.”

Joe threw up his hands. “You mean he's gone now?”

Biff looked embarrassed. “He was really creepy looking, Joe. He had thick red hair, you know. It was, like, all over the place. And he had sunglasses and a mustache.”

“What's so creepy about that?”

“It all looked fake, like the hair was a wig. The mustache didn't look right either.”

“Hey,” Joe said, under his breath. “That must be him.”

Frank and Biff followed Joe's gaze out the window. They watched as a redheaded man dressed in a cheap-looking business suit stepped out of an alley between a jewelry store and the bank.

“That's him!” Biff confirmed.

The man stopped outside the bank doors. He glanced around before quickly disappearing inside.

Joe jumped up. “Yeah, he looks like he's about to make a mighty big withdrawal.”

“Be cool,” Frank warned as he and Biff followed Joe out. “We don't want to make a mistake and bust some guy for just looking funny.”

“Don't worry,” Joe said. “If looking funny were a crime, you'd get a life sentence.”

Biff chuckled out loud.

The three friends crossed the street quickly, then slowed as they carefully approached the bank. With the afternoon glare, they couldn't see anything through the smoked-glass windows. The street was nearly deserted.

“Here's what we do,” Frank whispered. “I'll walk in like a regular customer. If there's nothing wrong, I'll act like I forgot something and walk right back out. If I don't come out in ten seconds, you know something's up. Call the police.”

Joe and Biff nodded.

Frank set his facial expression on neutral, just a normal guy running a bank errand. Then he walked through the first set of double doors.

Pausing in the space between the two sets of doors, he felt a cool breeze from the bank's air-conditioning. Trying to see through the second set of doors, he thought he could make out the shapes of people moving around inside. Things looked normal enough.

He pushed through the second set of doors and into the bank. The sight inside sent a chill down his spine.

Five or six bank customers lay on the floor, their hands clasped behind their heads.

Two tellers rushed around behind the counter, dumping trays of cash into a cloth satchel. One of them sobbed quietly as she worked.

The redheaded man stood in the center of the room, a gun raised over his head.

He spotted Frank instantly. “Get down!” he shouted. He took a step toward Frank and brandished the gun in his direction. “Get on the floor—now!”

Outside, Biff and Joe waited. The seconds ticked past.

“Something's wrong,” Joe said. “We've got to get in there.”

Biff put his hand on Joe's shoulder. “Frank said to call the cops and wait.”

“No,” Joe said. “That could take too long. Frank might be in trouble.” He took off, leaving Biff with a bewildered expression on his face.

Joe sprinted across the street to the van. He yanked the sliding door open and pulled out two baseball bats.

A woman coming out of an ice-cream store stopped and stared at him.

“Call the police!” Joe called to her as he ran
back across the street. “Empire Federal's being robbed.”

The woman dropped her yogurt to the sidewalk and dashed back inside the ice-cream store.

Joe tossed a bat to Biff. “I'll go around to the side,” he said. “Give me ten seconds, then go in the front, fast.”

Joe ran to the side entrance, counting to himself. He barely had time to catch his breath before he reached ten. Lowering his shoulder, he slammed into the door, hitting it so hard that it swung back into the wall. The glass shattered, showering the floor with tiny glass pellets.

•  •  •

Inside, Frank had done as he was told and was lying on the floor, his fingers locked behind his head.

He felt the redheaded man looming over him, making sure he was complying. When Frank saw the man's shoes start to move the other way, he peeked up, hoping to memorize something about the robber that would help in capturing him later.

The man spun around suddenly. “Keep that head down!” he yelled. Then he spoke to everyone in the bank. “You all stay nice and quiet,” he said. “This will all be over in a few minutes.”

At that moment Frank heard a terrific crash. He looked up to see Joe stagger in, covered with round pellets of glass.

Startled, the crook held the gun out in two hands, pointed right at Joe. Then Frank saw him turn to the front door. There was Biff!

Biff held the bat ready to swing and took a step toward the robber.

“Biff! He's got a gun!” Frank shouted.

Biff froze.

Frank heard the gun go off. An awful orange flash lit up the bank.

The bullet ripped through the barrel of Biff's bat, exploding it into a confetti of wood chips. For a split second, Biff stood holding just the handle of the bat, then he dove for cover behind a desk.

Joe saw his chance. He blitzed the thug, swinging his bat at the guy's wrists. He hit the gun, and it went skittering across the tile floor.

The redheaded man started to go for the gun, but Frank was already up, blocking his path to the weapon.

“Come and get it,” Frank said, beckoning the man with a wave of his hand.

After a second's hesitation the crook turned and fled through the rear emergency exit. The Hardys pursued him into the parking lot.

Running at full speed, Joe swung the bat, hitting the man on the side of his leg. The crook tripped and tumbled forward.

Joe went in to finish him off, but the thug was up in a flash, ready to fight.

Frank circled to the man's right, while Joe took a step to his left.

“You'd better give it up,” Joe warned, holding the bat out menacingly. “I don't want to have to hurt you.”